


everything in between

by orphan_account



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 05:29:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26846692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: When Miya Osamu was three minutes old and forty-two seconds old, he heard his brother cry for the first time. When he is fifteen years old, he sees his brother cry over their middle school team’s lost at championships. When he is seventeen, he sees his brother cry because of him.And in between all these years, Miya Osamu does not once regret having his brother by his side.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu & Miya Osamu
Comments: 6
Kudos: 158





	everything in between

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is dedicated to my fav atsumu stan ever — tracy chan :-) sobs you're the best fr i love you so much. i was writing this and couldn't stop thinking of who to dedicate this fic to and you popped in my brain! and honestly? i couldn't think of anyone else i'd love to dedicate this miya twins fic too bc you're the bestest ever ily even though you smell rolls eyes
> 
> fyi for readers !! this fic was written in a blur and is barely revised so bear with me ... but happy miya twins day :D i know this is one day late but i celebrate their birthday today so ig this counts ? i don't even know what this fic is but anyways, i hope you enjoy because i just love, love these two so much and their dynamics. happy birthday, atsumu and osamu !! (also older twin osamu agenda lives in my mind rent free)

Miya Osamu is the moon. Or so, his mother says. He doubts she calls him that because he is obedient and the tolerable one of the twins. She only calls him that because the moon has always been the tamer one of them, sun and moon. It was only for jokes at first, but when his brother went ahead and dyed his hair blazing yellow, the metaphor stuck even more. 

He can’t protest it, no matter how many nasty words spill from his chapped lips after Atsumu makes a jab at his name after a fistfight, or even when his father jokes about it when they have family dinners, because he knows the name is only one his mother had given out of love for him. 

And of course, Miya Osamu loves his mother. 

“You know, I don’t call you my moon because you’re sufferable,” she says, lacing her tiny hands with his. At this time, he is nineteen years old, freshly graduated from Inarizaki and attending Hyogo University. 

He smiles at his mother. “It’s fine, really. I don’t care for such things like that.”

His mother giggles, pressing her fingers firmer against Osamu’s calloused ones. “I know that, but I really want to tell you why. Are you willing to listen?” And who is he to say no to his mother? 

“Of course, mama.” 

Her eyes twinkle, a brightness he has always found comfort in. “I know it may seem unrealistic, but you really are the moon, ‘Samu. It’s nothing to do with the fact that you’re different from your brother,” they both giggle at her words because they know _different_ barely grazes the word for how ‘Samu and ‘Tsumu are nothing alike. 

Atsumu is boastful, vain, overall unpleasant, and an extremely talented volleyball player. Osamu is too, except, there's a level of stark contrast between them. Even from the same flesh and cells of their parents, Osamu is pleasant, respectful, graceful, and has a flair to him that Atsumu fails to portray (or so his father says). He pushes away their differences because he knows the listography could go _on and on_ about how they were statistically most likely first cousins rather than twin brothers. 

“But I say it because _you_ represent it.” she jabs a finger at Osamu when she pronounces you. But with her Kansai dialect, it sounds like yer, and Osamu has to suppress a laugh. At least that was something they both got from their mother.

“The moon is a sign of redemption and adaptation. The moon pulls the tides, always grasping for the waters as they wash away further.” 

He snorts. “Are you saying I’m unable to attain anything?” Her face crinkles, a mirror of his. And Atsumu’s. 

“Silly boy! What mama is saying is that you are powerful, but in the most admirable of ways. You are strong, unrelenting, and charismatic. I know you have always had your doubts, even in volleyball.” 

She looks down at the spam omusubi on the plate between them. “I get it, I really do, ‘Samu. But you are everything, my world, my moon. You have always represented the moon, calming, beautiful, and every bit strong, even if you can’t see that. You are the moon who gives us light, the moon who gives us strength and affection.” Osamu isn’t emotional, _god's_ no, those genes were thankfully passed to his brother, but hearing these words from his mother make his heart clutch, thundering against his rib cage. 

“Mama, you are too kind to me,” he sniffles, wiping his eyes with his wrist. She laughs airily, one of absolute adoration. She pulls him closer, tugging her eldest son into her arms. 

“‘Samu, I can always be kind to you. Now, will you let your old mama eat the last musubi?” she teases, pointing to the last musubi on the plate. He laughs, silvered eyes staring at his mother. 

“Of course, mama.” 

Miya Osamu is two years old when he first lands a hit on his brother, tiny fists grabbing Atsumu’s blanket that he was tightly holding onto and drools over it. Atsumu, the crybaby he was, opens his no-teeth mouth and lets out a piercing cry for their mother. 

Osamu still doesn’t know what happens after because the anecdotes from his father and mother are completely biased and unrealistic, but his aunt says he, with the strength of a dragon, rips the blanket from his brother and spits in his hair. 

“I was totally unprovoked and he spat on me! In my hair, of all places!” Atsumu complains when their mother tells them the story for bedtime one night, the mom sandwiched between her two sons. But when Atsumu is missing quite too many teeth and has too much spit, the words come out more like, 

_“I wath thotally unprovoked and he spath on meth! In myth hair, of all places!”_ Osamu snorts, rolling his eyes and snuggles closer next to their mother. Atsumu pouts, but their mother soothes him with the promise of a new volleyball for the summer camp.

By the age of eight years old, the twins have both learned their ways to aimlessly throw constant jabs at each other, whether they be physical or verbal. Their father was the one to intervene, but only verbally. When the poisoned words were too much and one or more bones were broken, it was always their mama that stopped the both of them with her piercing eyes. 

“Now, yer can’t be saying that when ya threw the ball at m’ head two weeks ago!” It’s now Osamu’s time to complain about his brother’s antics, and their mother giggles. Atsumu’s little jaw drops from across him, and Osamu sticks out a pink tongue at his younger brother. 

It seems like with each year they grow, they only get more playful. 

“Mama, what’s so funny?!” He says, crossing his arms childishly and attempting to glare at his mother. She giggles again, hand reaching to ruffle Osamu’s hair. 

“Nothing, ‘Samu. I just find it very cute how you two get along.” At this, Osamu frowns. 

“But Mama, coach said me and ‘Tsumu fight so much we might not even be siblings,” the words carry little meaning to him as an eight year old with only volleyball and onigiri in his brain, but when he’s in his second year of high school, screaming at his brother, he understands the weight of them. 

Even with the unrelenting profanity tossed between the two like a scrimmage, with every side-eyed glance on the court and every injury sustained because the two couldn’t behave, he knows. He knows that if he were to ever _lose_ Atsumu, it would be like losing an organ. 

Which, realistically, technically would be true since Atsumu was his other half. But besides that, he couldn’t even bear the thought of that. Atsumu, minus his brash, obnoxious personally and absolute stupidity in mathematics, was his brother. His pillar. 

It was weird, considering the amount of times they had been separated due to the never-ending fistfights, but Osamu still longed for him. He still laid in bed, tucked under the comforters, dreaming of Atsumu. He dreamt that his brother was still with him, even though it wasn’t possible when Atsumu was five thousand miles away in Australia eating god know what. 

When Miya Osamu is twenty-two years old, he opens his laptop at work and types in the search bar: _How to stop missing your twin when he’s the devil incarnate???_

There are sixty search results. So he goes through them one by one, each one more bizarre than the one before as he navigates his way on websites with absolute zero knowledge on twin telepathy. After reading barely ten, he _really_ wants to know who wrote these because they clearly do not have _any_ knowledge on twins or how they worked. 

“You shouldn’t take guidance from the internet,” Shinsuke Kita tells him, sliding into the booth. Osamu screams, slamming his laptop shut. If it wasn't his former volleyball captain and rice supplier, he’d most definitely have spat out a string of horrifying words that he knows would have their deceased grandma come back from her casket and give him a beating with her rice hat. 

“You can’t break that, it’s so expensive!” Aran Ojiro says, waddling in right behind Kita with his duffel bag tossed over one shoulder. His former vice captain is wearing his team’s windbreaker, Tachibana Red Falcons printed in maroon red so close to Inarizaki’s red, and black sweatpants. Osamu gives him a shy smile. 

Internally? He wants to rip out his hair, bite his lip till it’s bleeding crimson, and shout: _Why did God send me Kita and Aran-san of all people to help?!_

“I didn’t know you two were coming,” Osamu says sheepishly, wiping his greased fingers onto the black apron around his waist. Shinsuke smiles. 

“If we did, you’d just prepare a banquet.” Osamu blushes furiously, because he knows Kita-san is right. He _did_ have a tendency to go overboard with treating his seniors. There wasn’t an explanation needed, because he knew his former teammates kept more than enough evidence of those times so they could exhibit it like a prized treasure and cackle away at Osamu’s habit. 

“So, what kind of counseling were you hoping to get from searching up how to deal with missing your twin when he’s five thousand miles away?” Aran teases, pointing to the soju bottle behind Osamu. Osamu almost trips over his own two feet getting it, and then almost trips again when he receives the wine glasses from the back cupboard. 

“Ojiro-san, I’d really like it if you didn’t tell ‘Tsumu about all this,” Osamu says, pouring the soju. Aran smiles. 

“What would you two like?” 

Kita snorts. “You can’t ask that, you know we’ll eat anything you make.” Osamu offers a nervous smile, but goes to get the rice and nori. He decides he’ll make them spicy salmon,, since Kita-san and Ojiro-san liked salmon so much. When he’s done wrapping two platefuls of salmon onigiri, he presents it to them with shaky hands. 

“No need to be nervous, Osamu. What’s on your mind?” Aran says, taking a bite of the onigiri. He gives a thumbs up. 

Osamu sits on the stool behind the counter, facing the two of them. “I’m just, I don’t even know. I feel like I’m missing ‘Tsumu more these days cause our birthdays’ coming up tomorrow and we’re still unsure if we even get to see each other.”

Kita nods, “I get it. It’s probably because you're emotional and want your brother back.” 

Osamu crinkles his nose, “That sounds disgusting.” 

Aran puts his onigiri down, “That’s totally normal though. I miss Kita all the time.”

Osamu wants to bash his head against the black marble counter. He loves them, he really does, but he can’t even bother to cover his snarl as he says, “That’s because you two are _married!_ I’m his _brother,_ ” 

Kita stares at him, mouth full and tiny rice grains spotted around his face, “Does the difference really matter? You’re still family regardless, missing family isn’t a sin, _‘Samu._ ” The nickname is like a punch to his abdomen, one with too much emotions for him to claw at and dig deeper without burning his hands. 

Osamu rolls his eyes, “You know what’s a sin? Being related to that _monstrosity_ of a brother.” 

Aran snorts, looking away. “Careful, Miya. Slander him too much and he’ll toss you a ball to the head for revenge.” Of course, _of course_ Ojiro-san remembers the story of how Osamu threw a ball to his twin brother’s head at summer camp once. It was only told once, and in his defense, he wasn’t even _sober_ when he admitted his crime!  
  


“That was once! Anyways, onigiri is on me. I’m getting a headache even talking about him,” Osamu says, pushing himself off the stool and grabbing his water bottle, chugging it down. 

A few days after the Onigiri Miya accident, his twin brother skype calls him. Of course he does, because who else would call Osamu at four thirty am in the morning with a pink, fluffy headband pulling back his hair and Sanrio character stickers all over his face? For him though, a little bit is grateful because in three hours, he would have to be up for work. Instead, he was prancing around the kitchen thinking of new onigiri seasonings to add on his shelves for the volleyball season coming up. 

“Hiya, ‘Samu!” Atsumu waves a little too enthusiastically, and Osamu seriously considers ending the call. 

“Is he drunk?” he says into the microphone, praying that someone was in the same room as his long-gone brother who has managed to shave half his left eyebrow off.

“A little bit.” Comes the strangely familiar of Sakusa Kiyoomi. Osamu’s brows raise. Surely his brother wasn't with the guy who _hated_ him, the guy who _he_ proclaimed was going to drown him in a barrel of bleach till he was unrecognizable, break his limbs, and then toss him off Mount Fuji? Osamu snorts so hard he starts choking on his saliva, and he has to mute the call so he pound a fist against his back to stop the embarrassment. 

It would have been fine if it was _just_ his brother, but this was a university recognized volleyball MVP. Someone from a league one division team in the V League, and the starting hitter for the Japan National Volleyball Team. The thought sends chills down Osamu’s back muscles. 

“Who gave him alcohol?” Osamu says, unmuting himself before opening the doors of his fridge as he continues to look at the laptop screen. Atsumu is still sitting cris-crossed on a hotel mattress, skin flushed red with a too big smile.

Kiyoomi enters the frame a bit later, snatching the laptop from Atsumu to talk with Osamu. 

“Sorry, Bokuto-san tried to give him water but as you can tell, it was not water.” He gestures to the messy hotel room, which Osamu can only presume are the remnants left over from their teammates after they were kicked out by Sakusa. 

“At least you’re there. God knows what’d happen if Bokuto-san or Inumaki-san were there,” Osamu says, looking at the screen. Sakusa’s face scrunches up a little bit at Osamu’s words, and Osamu wants to scream. The nose scrunch resembles his brother so much, so much of himself.

They’re definitely dating. As if the big ass, purple and nasty red _bruise_ at the base of Sakusa’s neck wasn’t evidence enough. If he accused Atsumu now, the setter would just protest with words of a five year old in a verbal fight. But Osamu isn’t stupid, has never been, and he has eyes for god sakes. 

“Highly stand by that, and it’s not like I have a choice to be here. The bastard dragged me here.” he points to Atsumu, who’s sitting against the bed teetering back and forth with a volleyball between his knees. 

“But,” Sakusa’s voice drops an octave as he shuffles around, into the divided section that was designed for him inside the split hotel room. “He’s been asking captain nonstop if he’ll see you in time tomorrow for your birthday,” 

Osamu snorts. “Of course we will. The flight won’t be delayed,” he doesn’t need to say right, because he knows even if the flight was delayed, it surely wouldn’t take his brother very long to come home and celebrate together, right?

Sakusa is frowning at this point, Osamu can tell, even under the white surgical mask. 

“I would advise you to not get your hopes up, but you’ve always been the more sensible one between the two of you and you know how this might play out.”

Osamu snarls, “Ya, key word _might._ I know I'm seeing my brother tomorrow, no one’s stopping us.” The veil of suspicion and doubt doesn't leave Sakusa's face, but he still doesn't say anything. Not out of pity, Osamu definitely doesn't need that, but they both know it's better when known, harsh words were left unsaid.

“‘Samu, I always knew you loved me!” Atsumu proclaims like a damn princess from in the background, breaking into a fit of childish giggles. 

“Shut up. I’m ending the call. Thanks, Sakusa.” Sakusa gives an affirmative nod. 

When Miya Osamu is twenty-two, no, officially twenty-three as twelve am passes by, he wakes up to an extremely unpleasant bundle on top of him in bed. It is one fifty-two am, or at least, that's what his bleary eyes can make out as he cranes his neck over to the alarm clock on his nightstand. 

The bedroom, _his_ bedroom, is dark, only lit by the faint nightlight and moonlight coming through the slits of the bedroom blinds. Osamu feels like he's in a horror film, but there's one thing he needs to do before he can venture out of the comforts of his bed and potentially get robbed. 

“What the hell?” he groans out, yawning and kicking his still toned legs from volleyball at the invader. The invader doesn't move, but just stays like a paralyzed bundle of head & shoulders almond oil shampoo smelling duvets. 

“Is that any way to greet your little brother?” the bundle says, muffled and obviously pained from the way Osamu had kicked him. If it had been any other person, they probably would have gone flying across the bedroom floor. _Ah,_ so that's who it was. 

Then it hits him, harder than any volleyball his brainless twin brother has ever hit him with. His brain couldn’t have possibly processed the thought at this time of the day, not even enough to get a coherent, understandable sentence out of him, but it works now.

Osamu screams, jerking up in bed and ultimately, throwing his brother off the bed and onto the floor. 

“What’s ya problem, ya jerk?!” Atsumu hisses from the floor, cradling his head like a baby as he rises from the bundle of duvets. 

Osamu frowns. “What’s my problem? Ya show up in my bed without no indication of who ya were and you say I have a problem?” 

Atsumu stares up at him, “Sorry about that, ‘Samu. But ya should have known, twin telepathy am I right?” Osamu rolls his eyes so hard he’s sure he saw the insides of his brain. 

“Stop with that nonsense. How’d ya get here so early?” Osamu says, flopping back down onto his bed. Atsumu pushes himself off the floor, with too much strength for someone who was crying foul play minutes ago. Osamu scoffs to himself as his brother sits himself on his bed, muscled limbs bumping into Osamu as he makes himself comfortable on the bed.

He shouldn't have expected less from the flashiest person in the Miya household. 

“Took the first flight here after I woke up.” 

Osamu side eyes his brother, “Must have been hell,” Atsumu sticks out his tongue, a faint reminder to Osamu that his brother his still the childish little boy he was years ago, all chubby cheeks, cocky remarks, and playful persona. Of course, the cocky remarks are still here ( ~~unfortunately~~ ). 

“It was, I went through all that for my older brother and he repays me by kicking me off his bed!” The setter protests.

A playful smirk dances on Osamu’s lips. “You deserved that. But anyways,” he turns on his ribcage to face his brother.

“Happy birthday, ‘Tsumu.” Atsumu debates for a second, whether or not he should use this chance to push his brother off the bed or say it back like a normal person would. 

Of course, Atsumu isn’t a normal person, so he giggles, jerks forward with his hands out, and tosses his brother off the bed. 

“Happy birthday, ‘Samu!” Osamu can hear from the ground. He would never admit this outloud to Atsumu, or to anyone, but for a split second, he smiles. 

Maybe their mother was right. They were the sun and moon, halves that were never meant to be the same, never have the same purpose, but they were the same regardless. In heart, and in memories. 

They were brothers, twin brothers who would throw rice at each other behind the onigiri stand, brothers who would spit in each other’s faces while their mother and father stood in the kitchen, laughing. They were them, no similar in physical and mind, but similar in heart. 

Miya Osamu decides at the age of twenty-three, on the floor of his bed, that he loves his brother. That even with endless rice supply for his onigiri store, or a banquet with his most desired dishes, he would never, ever trade his brother for anyone else. 


End file.
